Fulcrum
by DoctorStonegarden
Summary: The unstoppable force and the immovable object collide in the form of Emrys and the one called Mordred. Rated M for porny goodness to come.
1. The Distant Bell

_**A/N: **__Hello, Merlin fans. Miss me? Don't answer that.  
I know, I've been away for a while. Other fandoms and RL concerns have taken up my time. I will be completing my triptych of Hatred, Courage, and Betrayal in the near future, so here's something for you that will be completed by Friday. _

_Incidentally, there will be porn. And I mean ridiculous amounts of porn. This chapter is just the set up for it._

Merlin stops when he feels it.

"Merlin?" Gwen calls over from the table, eyes full of concern.

"Nothing!" He says, with the smile that has handmaids tripping over each other to sneak him sweetmeats from the kitchen.

Merlin finishes pouring a goblet of wine for the queen, and sets it and a jug of it by her elbow.

"Will that be all, your majesty? Gaius wants me to clean the leech tank."

Works every time.

Gwen raises and eyebrow in expectation of the argument they might be about to have, so Merlin raises his hands in defeat and capitulates to save some time.

"Will that be all, Gwen?"

"I know how to pour my own wine, Merlin." Gwen says archly. "God knows I'll need it." They both look at the mountain of tax reports at her elbow.

"Sometimes I think Arthur gives you the all the hard work so he has more time to hit people." Merlin says as a parting shot on his way out. Gwen's sweet laugh follows him out of the door.

And then he runs.

X

There are sometimes moments of great stillness in a day.

Not every day. Just sometimes.

Like clouds parting to admit a ray of sunlight, sometimes the clatter of wagons and the braying of people and animals and the clink of money and the wind and voices all just stop for a moment.

And then, a sound may be carried to your ear, carried from far away by the stillness of the day, no barriers of noise and life to subsume it and drown it.

The distant bark of a dog. Maybe a rock falling, somewhere.

The peal of a lonely bell.

That was what it was like. A bell, heralding the time. His magic – all magic – acknowledging the beginning of something, quietly and neutrally. Recognising the fulcrum of destiny, arrived at last.

X

It's Mordred.

He's not long been in the city; Merlin must have sensed him coming through the gate. He's dressed plainly, in a tunic and a green cloak with a pack over his shoulders, a sword on his hip, staring at everything in a way that Merlin recognises.

There's bitterness, too, but Merlin puts that to the back of his mind

For a very brief moment Merlin panics. Then, with the cold and self-assured confidence that has seen him through every crisis since it grew through the cracks of his ruined innocence, plans how to get rid of him.

X

Mordred takes rooms in a boardinghouse off the market square. It's cheap, much cheaper than somewhere like the Rising Sun, and Merlin sees Mordred frown at his purse as he pays the proprietess for one night at the door.

Merlin goes back to Gaius's, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.

X

Mordred will know him on sight whatever his disguise is, so Merlin makes sure he bundles up. He risks using the alias of Dragoon again, but takes the time to cut his white beard and hair to a stubble. Long hours of practice has ensured that he can slip between his old and young self with the ease of changing a shirt. In an old blue cloak that conceals everything of his person and with a little wooden plate set before his crossed legs, he waits.

It's about six bells when Mordred finally leaves, without his pack and sword. He walks off towards the market square, away from Merlin, with the uncertain steps and slightly awed expression of everyone new to Camelot.

He'll be off exploring the city for a while.

Merlin can't blame him. Camelot is lovely in the hours between close of business and the curfew.

With the natural caution of the new-in-town, Mordred will probably ask after the time of curfew and be back well before then. Plenty of time for both stages of his plan.

Heaving his aching bones off the ground, Merlin pours the scant coins gathered in his begging cup into his hand, arranges his ratty old cloak to emphasise its threadbare nature, and approaches the door.

He knows the proprietess is kindly and not averse to selling a little food for those with a little coin. The woman takes pity on him. While her back is turned, rustling through her cabinets for a spare bit of bread and some fruit, he speaks the words of the Old Religion and commands her to sleep.

With the proprietess snoring gently on a chair, Merlin sneaks upstairs, the face of Dragoon gone once more.

Into Mordred's room he creeps, and in the most obvious place he can think of in the spartan room, hides the objects that will ensure Mordred's arrest, and exits the building.

It feels a bit like an anti-climax to end Arthur's doom with a straw doll and a few pages of occult diagrams.

Stopping only to throw the old cloak into an idle ragman's cart along the way, Merlin saunters to the Rising Sun, and finds exactly who he's looking for.

X

A few drinks with some new, young knights from old families with an inflated idea of their own self-worth between their ears, and Merlin deftly steered the conversation towards war stories.

Servant, yes, but these airheaded knights had been weaned on the adventures of King Arthur and his suicidally brave manservant. They were all green boys, every one, better with a sword than the king's manservant but without anything approaching his number of war stories; it helped that every Knight of Camelot knew it was an unwritten capital offence to harm, maim, bully, or otherwise offend the Merlin.

They were all trying to outdo each other with tales that grew ever more unlikely, so it was inevitable that Merlin was able to steer the conversation towards sorcery.

_Did you hear about that time we… They've been real quiet lately… Yeah, I think I saw one today, actually… Probably just being paranoid… Going into that boardinghouse. You know, the one run by the widow… Yeah, he looked a bit like me. What – no! It definitely wasn't me! I wouldn't be so stupid to wander 'round Camelot if I was bloody sorcerer! Hahahaha!_

So, as soon as Merlin bid them farewell, he settled into the shadows across the street and watched as the band of young knights charged off in the direction of his vague hints. They'd turn up at the boardinghouse, barge into Mordred's room, find the evidence, and job well done; future of Albion safeguarded, thank you very much.

When the knights arrest the wrong man, Merlin resists the urge to set everything on fire.

He was a trembling wreck. His hair was brown, not the black Merlin had subtly specified and his eyes were too watery to be anything but turquoise. And the only thing green about his cloak was the mould around the edge.

Gaius proclaims the poppet to be genuine, but feigns ignorance as to its use. It's supposed to dance if you tell it to. The arcane scribblings and diagrams – magically copied, of course, not in anything so questionable as Merlin's own handwriting – to be the template for a fertility spell. It's actually a powerful death-curse of Merlin's own devising, as Gaius knows – apart from the bit about Merlin creating it – but they're both hoping for some leniency for the man who wandered into a crossfire he didn't even know existed.

Arthur postpones his trial until next morning. Merlin breaks the man out of the dungeons through one of the supposedly guarded and filled-in siege tunnels that bureaucracy and lack of manpower have left untouched for now.

The man thanks Merlin profusely with tears and clutching at his favourite shirt, and flees into the woods.

Bugger.


	2. On The Border

Merlin chooses to go against his instinct and not spring on Mordred in a deserted street and try to murder him in a dramatic magical duel to the death.

He goes to clean Arthur's chainmail, and thinks up some other way to get rid of him.

And that's when Gwen comes in with more tax reports and tells him about this new squire, name of Mordred, said he owed Arthur an old debt, do you know him? What a nice young man. Very polite. Quite handsome, too. I thought he was your brother for a minute, giggle giggle. Are you all right, Merlin?

No. He fucking isn't.

Merlin doesn't say that, of course. Whatever he says is inconsequential and polite and masterfully executed in its normalcy.

It's time to talk to Gaius.

X

"If the dragon is right…"

"It doesn't bear thinking about."

"I don't see what we can do. Arthur and the knights have already taken a liking to him."

"We just have to wait. Mordred swore he would have his revenge. I'll just have to prove he's not to be trusted."

He says as much to Arthur. Merlin knows from bitter experience that out-and-out telling Arthur that Mordred is destined to kill him is not going to work, so he goes for a more subtle approach, and just says that he's not sure about him yet.

Arthur, of course, dismisses Merlin's fears about a known Druid who has lost everything to Camelot being a potential security risk. Especially if he's possibly a sorcerer. And Morgana was fond of him, too. Oh well, I'll get your dinner.

X

Merlin watches Mordred.

They don't cross each other's' paths, except when they're in proximity at training. Mordred takes his meals with the knights and sleeps in the antechamber of Leon's room as his squire. He makes no sudden or suspicious movements, except when training with the other squires or is under one of knights' direct tutelage; the only midnight rendezvous he makes is when Sir Leon wakes up in the middle of the night and sends him for a cup of water. They haven't even glared at each other yet.

Merlin surreptitiously plants some wards around Leon's chambers, to wake him up if Mordred ever does decide it's time for a sneaky meeting with the queen bitch herself, Public Enemy Number One, the lady Morgana. There's no point losing any sleep watching his door if he's not going out.

No such luck.

The alerts turn out to be Leon sneaking out for clandestine moonlit meetings with a lady of his fancy. Nothing improper, apart from the sexual tension, which Merlin adds to his list of arguments in his favour to use on occasions when Arthur is crippled by his ridiculous honour. Not that Arthur so much as looks at anyone else now that Gwen is queen.

After several nights of inadvertently listening in to the awkward conversations between Leon and his lady friend, Merlin raises a freak gust of wind so that Leon is forced to clutch his crush close lest she be blown away like a leaf, and flees before the kissing gets too sloppy.

A different approach must be taken.

X

Mordred thinks Merlin doesn't notice the glares and the _I-hate-you-so-much_ body language. He controls it better than Morgana ever did, to the boy's credit.

He tenses up whenever he knows Merlin is in the room, even if they never look directly at each other. Merlin feels familiar glares raking across the back of neck. And still they don't speak.

More importantly, Mordred makes no move; against Arthur, against Merlin, against Camelot; not a sniff of treason to be found.

He must be missing something.

X

There's only one way to know for sure. Merlin doesn't want to do it, because it's one finger-snap away from dark magic, but he has to be sure of Mordred's intentions.

He's read all of Gaius's books on the mind; looked for hours through his grimoire, and sought out the dusty tomes behind the revolving bookshelf in the library. If this doesn't work, then nothing will.

Sir Leon is out on patrol until tomorrow. Mordred should be out with the squires until the last bell before the curfew. Arthur and Gwen are sitting in adjacent chairs and staring at each other in that glassily besotted way they have, so he gets off work early. It's now or never.

He slips through the shadows of the citadel like an old cat, proud and comfortable in his territory. The door to Leon's chambers opens without a creak. Mordred's antechamber is spartan and ruthlessly neat, rosily lit by the setting sun. Merlin stands behind the door.

And waits.

X

Sure enough, Mordred comes home at the appointed time, like the proverbial and as of yet non-existent clockwork.

He's grinning and a bit tipsy, and he doesn't notice the warlock in the room at first.

Merlin deliberately makes his heels click ominously as he steps out from behind the door. It gets the boy's attention; he jumps like a rabbit and swings his sword wildly in the general direction of the door. With a flick of the wrist, it's gone; Merlin sees his eyes reflected in the blade very briefly, stars in the shadows cast by the door.

Mordred, of course, knows him on sight.

"_Emrys_." He hisses. It's difficult not to, with the unfortunate sibilant at the end of the name.

"Mordred."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Oh? I think you've been holding back."

Mordred's eyes flash and he lashes out; Merlin slaps down his clumsily forceful spell and steps forward, leaning until he's not quite in Mordred's personal space.

"Did you really think that would hurt me, boy?"

Snarling, the boy lashes out again, with his fists this time, but Merlin surprises him. Mordred has been training with a sword every day for over a month now, and for some time before that; he's supple and wiry. But Merlin has been training for longer, has had to repeat exercises over and over again to make up for a lack of natural talent; he's carried more weight than most packmules, can haul buckets of water and bags of grain and a whole trunk of Gwen's dresses like it's nothing. Merlin is strong, and it's starting to show; the jokes about him putting on weight ended when it became clear that it wasn't that kind of weight, after he beat Leon and Elyan in an arm wrestle.

He catches the boy's wrists, one locked in each hand, and presses him back, back towards the table. Mordred wriggles, but it's too late; Merlin's slamming him down onto the flat surface, pressing his hips over Mordred's and drawing their snarling faces closer together. He fights, but he's losing his will; Merlin's theories on the nature of the Druid's unique bond to him appears to be correct.

"You cannot fight me, boy."

"What do you want?" Mordred almost screams back, angry and more than a little bit scared. And something else, too.

Merlin presses himself fully against Mordred, shifting so that the boy can feel the solid ridges of his muscles beneath his homespun shirt, a deliberately thin one.

Something hard presses against his groin.

Neither of them will look away or pull back, so the gap between their faces rapidly becomes stuffy with their hot breath and the smell of brimstone. Mordred growls, baring rows white teeth.

Merlin feels his own lips curling back in a slight snarl, and lets his frothing magic loose.

Mordred's body betrays him at its touch, angling towards Merlin's, like a hundred little hooks tugging on his skin. Mordred will never escape his Druid heritage; never escape his inborn desire to submit to Emrys, to serve the child of the Old Religion. Merlin would never ask this of any other Druid, but no other Druid lusts after him so.

Merlin does not put any compulsion into the gentle press of magic on Mordred's mind and body; he lets it rest like a feather, no burden at all, there to be touched and explored if Mordred desires, but only if he comes for it, willingly and in supplication.

It is Mordred's own lust that is wearing down his resistance to Merlin. He takes some comfort from that; it makes the monstrosity of what he has to do next a little more bearable.

He allows himself to harden, and presses down on Mordred's hips, multiplying the heat and pressure between them tenfold.

"Damn you!" Mordred manages to choke out, but then he's lost, adrift on his desire.

Magic rubs up and down his flanks, eliciting a gasp. Merlin begins to rock his hips in earnest now, a slow slide dragging against the fabric of their breeches, in tandem with his magic's contribution.

Mordred's expression flickers somewhere between excruciating pleasure and absolute hatred. Merlin can understand that division. He's never done this with another man, never considered it until necessity dictated the circumstances for the spell he's about to attempt, but the pleasure is there and undeniable. He's disgusted with himself for doing this in this way, but now that he's doing it…

And then he's kissing Mordred. Any doubts have to disappear, because the boy is trying to regain some semblance of control; he kisses like he's hungry, and Merlin understands that as well because he's suddenly hungry too. He presses Mordred's head back to the table, and keeps the same focused rhythm in the slide of his hips and the open-close press of his mouth, until Mordred gives up and yields, kissing back out of time but without the same defiance. He tastes like the forest, and sweet from the mean he's been drinking.

But he's getting sidetracked.

He picks up the pace, until they're rutting violently, throwing themselves at each other as Merlin's magic binds them tighter. He presses down on Mordred's mind, scraping psychic fingers across the boy's nerve endings, rubbing along his bones. He's a writhing mess now, and the only thing keeping Merlin from becoming the same is his purpose here.

Mordred screams into Merlin's mouth, shuddering and shaking; he takes his chance and dives into the boy's mind, seeking.

There are no barriers to his goal; unguarded in the throes of his orgasm, Mordred's mind is open to him. He doesn't have to go far, just far back enough in recent memory to discern the whys, and depending on the whys, hows and whens.

And he's surprised at what he finds.

Close to the surface is the night he escaped from Camelot, when Arthur – _respect honour duty_ – worked with Morgana – _residual affection bitterness_ – to free him.

That's why he's here. The oaths Mordred took to serve were genuine. Arthur saved his life and renounced his father's stance on the Druid people; Mordred's forgiveness is no falsehood. There are no plots with Morgana, no treasons. And if Emrys – _hate hate __**desire**_ – is there, then he'll just keep out of the way.

In less than a heartbeat he's pulled out and pulled away. He leaves Mordred, sprawled half-conscious on his table, and the door bangs on his way out.

X

In one of Camelot's many convenient alcoves, concealed by a tapestry, Merlin pauses to catch his breath and wait for his burgeoning erection to fade. Only it doesn't.

It's then that Merlin accepts that he wants Mordred as much as the boy wants him too. He regrets fleeing before his own release was found.

They may never be friends or even take this situation, machinations aside, to an even more intimate level, but at the very least Merlin can see that they are cordial.

He spends himself all over the wall – no-one will clean behind here for years – and makes his way to bed early. Maybe by the time he gets there he'll be ready for another round.

A/N: _Anyone else notice that Colin Morgan seems to be more buff than before?_

_Also, this should be finished by tomorrow._


End file.
